Sail Away
by High-Functioning Ginger
Summary: AU - PirateLock! Swashbuckling adventures with Captain Sherlock Holmes and his ship, The Watson. Will include AU versions of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Irene,Moriarty and smatterings of Mycroft,Donovan and Anderson as well. *On Hiatus*
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: A new story! This is going to be different for me to write as its Piratelock! I adore all the fan-art on this and was talking with someone on DeviantArt about it – saying that if I could draw I would do a ton of Piratelock stuff. She reminded me that I could write and this was created! I've got a basic plot-line written out and a rough draft of who the characters will be. I should update weekly – but no promises as I've got four other Multi-chp fics I'm working on as well. I'm open to recommendations/requests on this one too.**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. That honour belongs to John Watson.**

"Ah, good morning, Sherlock. You're late." the crisp voice greets him as he enters the elegant office. The speaker, Mycroft Holmes, sits behind an ornate mahogany desk, with an expectant look on his face.

Sherlock continues his stride until he comes to the front on the desk. "What do you want, Mycroft?" he demands, cutting past the expected courtesies. He leans in, on the desk, his fingers drumming impatiently.

"Amiable as always." Mycroft quips in sarcastic response, and gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. "Take a seat." He says, expertly disguising the command as a request.

Sherlock quirks and eye-brow and instead perches on the corner of his desk in defiance. Not an easy feat, made awkward by the sword and sheath dangling from his side, but it makes his point.

Mycroft sucks in an exasperated breath at his childish tactics, but proceeds as though there is nothing unusual about the situation. Considering its Sherlock, there really isn't.

"Would you like some tea?" he offers, knowing Sherlock will refuse, but he enjoys antagonizing him with pleasantries.

"No." comes the crisp refusal and the drumming fingers start again.

Mycroft lets out a soft sigh, leaning slightly back in his chair. "Must you always be so disagreeable?" he asks, leveling him with a cool, disapproving stare.

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly in response and quips "Just my natural state of existence I suppose." Leveling him with a defiantly blasé gaze of his own.

"Indeed." is Mycroft's crisp retort. It's hasn't always been this way between them, but it seems that every time they see each other, more tension is created.

"As much as I'm enjoying this, I know you didn't summon me for a social call, so why am I here?" Sherlock questions, growing impatient with Mycroft's games.

"I need to be at the port in an hour, so can we get on with this? I'd prefer it to be over quickly_, if you_ _please_." he adds the last with a mocking undertone.

"It's about your position." Mycroft answers, his tone conveying the gravity of the situation. He'd heard many complaints of Sherlock's conduct, particularly his disrespect towards superiors and he hopes to remedy the situation.

"What about it? You forced me into it, if you're not happy with my time being spent at sea and out from under your thumb, it's hardly my problem." Is Sherlock's response as he chooses to ignore the hidden concern in Mycroft's voice. Not an encouraging response.

"If you wish to enjoy your continued _'freedom from my tyranny' _as you like to think, then you'd best pay heed to what I say." He warns, his voice loosing its smooth quality and hardening with vexation.

"And what exactly are you saying?" Sherlock snaps in exasperation.

"That your virulent lack of decorum and the ability to conduct yourself according to your rank will soon cause your demotion or removal within the Queens Royal Navy." Mycroft reprimands.

"And what exactly does it mean to 'act according to my rank'?" Sherlock asks with a mocking tone. "Making tedious small talk to my superiors and their wives, whom a majority of them are cheating on? Honestly the number of _'respectable' _gentleman who has a mistress has considerably lessened my respect for the bond of holy matrimony."

"Sherlo-" Mycroft tried to cut him off angrily, but Sherlock continued on with his rant.

Or perhaps I should offer untruthful flattery to some lord or another who thinks they know something of sailing, to stroke their ego, when they're in fact clueless as a lobotomized frog?" he takes another breath to continue on in indignation, but doesn't get the chance.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft cuts him of with a fierce reprimand, cold and low.

Sherlock returned it with an unconcerned expression. "I've said nothing more than the truth. I act according to my rank when it befits me and those in my company are deserving of it. It's hardly my fault if those two events rarely coincide."

"I worked hard to secure that commission for you, Sherlock. Called in a lot of favours. I will not allow you to squander it." Mycroft warned.

"Ah yes, I'd forgotten. This is all about your reputation isn't it? Couldn't stand to have me _'idle'_ so you sent me off to sea. 'His brother is an officer in the Queen's navy'. Liked the sound of that didn't you?" Sherlock argues, with a sardonic undertone.

"Sherlock you're the youngest-" Mycroft starts, only to be cut off.

"Youngest Officer in the past two decades. Yes, I know." He finishes, his tone indicating that this is something he's been reminded of far to often and is weary of.

"And you're willing to risk losing that?" Mycroft challenges, trying for a different tactic. Sherlock's one weakness is that he loves people to know how clever he is. This commission does that for his in many ways.

Sherlock remains silent, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Mycroft allows himself to relax, it seems he's finally gotten through to his younger brother. It's all a matter of knowing which strings to tug and Mycroft is very good at knowing that sort of thing.

The seconds ticked by as Sherlock remained silent, considering, but not what Mycroft thinks. "You're right." He finally says, breaking the silence, as a strange light sparks in his eyes.

Mycroft hide his triumphant smile and says "I'm glad you've seen reason." He's too busy enjoying his victory to notice Sherlock's slightly distant expression. "Now, I trust you'll take the necessary actions to restore yourself to favour among those higher ranking?"

Sherlock isn't listening to him, though. Instead he's moving slowly towards the large windows, talking as he does so. "You're right about the fact that I'm the youngest officer in two decades."

Mycroft narrows his eyes as he realizes that something isn't quiet right. They're having two different conversations it seems. Sherlock continues talking, moving around the office, and Mycroft follows with his eyes.

"And you know what? It's not to your credit. You may have secured the commission but I've kept it. I know the sea and ships better than most. I've got a natural touch for it. I think it's time I expanded my horizons, don't you think?"

Mycroft tried to register exactly what Sherlock was implying and he did so as Sherlock flipped the latch on the switch.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft demanded, standing in surprise as Sherlock opens the window and puts a foot upon the ledge. He's not the sort of man to wrestle someone on his own, so he makes no move towards the window to grab at Sherlock; he has more dignity than that.

"Out." Is Sherlock's devious response and in one swift moment, he steps out the window and leaps out onto a banner hanging over the street. At his unexpected weight it broke,

and he rides it to the street, landing with a dull thud upon the pavement.

His acrobatic exit had roused some attention from those on the street, causing shouts and curses from those walking and driving, children squealing in delight at a show. He can here Mycroft's shouts as he summons soldiers with the alert of a deserter.

Thinking quickly he darts into an alleyway, escaping the scrutiny of those on the open street, who would surely join in the hunt as soon as they heard. He'd made a bit too much of a spectacle by exiting the way he did, but it was worth the look on Mycroft's face.

He shed his elegant blue hat, gold stripped coat and formal wig. Now dressed in a poet shirt, blue leggings and boots, he was unlikely to attract attention. The sword was obviously an officer's; however he refused to leave it behind.

Given the fact that he looked vastly different with erratic chestnut curls as opposed to the powdered wig, even his own crewmen were unlikely to recognize him. His skin looked paler, his eyes a sharper blue and is face several years younger, making for the perfect

"disguise". He slipped out the other end of the alley, deciding that he should keep to the shadows as much as possible.

These was already an outcry on the streets, lines of red-coated soldiers on the move, searching for him. Time to leave Londontown. He headed for the port, knowing he wanted nothing more that to be at sea, the Captain of his own ship.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**

**KP**


	2. Opium Adventures

**AN: And here we are with chapter two! Now we're starting to get more into the story and in the next chp I'll introduce The Watson! Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed the story and a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed!**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Nobody does, he's a pirate.**_

Sherlock continues down the back alleyways until he comes upon an unsavory and raucous pub not to far from the port. His knowledge of sailing is limited to his position. The basic mechanics of the ship and its parts, steering, and how the wind and tide affected course are almost second nature to him.

However more practical skills, such as the physical labour behind the adjustments, aren't something he has any experience in. And he knows that if he wants to be successful in having his own ship and eventually crew, then he needs some hands-on experience. The pub ought to be a good place to find himself a position on a vessel where he can refine his skills.

Now Sherlock's no pirate of course, and he doesn't have any desire to fall in league with the cold-hearted pillagers. However, he suspects that the pub will also attract underground traders, who are hardly a step above pirates, but slightly more agreeable.

He ducks into it, through a heavy mahogany door and is met with a foul combination of heavy smoke, ale and unwashed bodies. The intensity causes him to cough as he wades his way through the sea of drunkards and smoky air. He scans the faces of the patrons, quickly and easily categorizing them.

The two curvaceous women are the bartender's daughters who help to bring in extra customers and earning with their favors.

The obnoxious group of younger men seated around a table in the center are just back from a whaling trip.

The four men lined at the bar are regulars, hopeless outcasts of society. One, the balding red-head, had come from Ireland and made his way over to escape the battles and seek his fortune. The one to his left, a gangly bearded man, had attempted and failed to become a writer and squandered the little money he had, that came from his father.

The rest consisted of weatherworn sailors, young lads seeking their newest adventure and women who found a drunken oblivion more pleasing than their husbands and home.

And – Oh! There, off to one side, tucked behind the table of the whale-hunters, is a group of fairly mild-mannered men with a piece of parchment set in front of them. He can see several of them attempting to call out over the din, but it's lost amongst the haze.

Opium traders. Independent ones, at that. Unusual, the East India Trading Company is the main seller and they despise independent parties treading on their territory. It will take him to China, which is fair distance enough to learn what he needs, and perhaps he'll stay when they arrive until he finds his own ship. Yes, this will work perfectly, he decides and approaches them.

He makes his way over to stand in front of the old table with several sea-worn mean seated around and behind it. "Looking for crew?" he inquires, already knowing the answer.

"We are." Answers a short, heavyset man with an air of authority about him that places him as first-mate. "'ave any experience?" he inquires, surveying Sherlock doubtfully.

"Aboard an opium trading ship? No." he answers, relishing the look of surprise on their faces.

"And how do you know what sort of ship we sail?" countered the first-mate.

Sherlock lets out a soft sigh at his density. "It's rather obvious. You've all got yellowed fingers that come from scratching the seed pods." He answers with a dismissive gesture of his hand.

The crewmen cast unnerved glances at one-another as they survey their fingers.

The first-mate lets out a short bark of laughter "So we do. Well then son, you're right clever I'll give you that. But can you sail?"

Sherlock hesitates for a half-second debating on how to answer. At the mention of the word "navy" the entire pub would scatter, so how does he claim his experience?

"Yes. My father was a captain and I grew up by his side." He answers, which is not entirely untrue.

His father was a Captain aboard a merchant ship, but when he married Sherlock's mother and they had children he left the sea for a job on land. Still he'd grown up with stories of the sea and ships.

The first-mate eyes him suspiciously, seeming to suspect that he is leaving out important information, but he lets it drop. Pushing the parchment forward he said "We sail in the morning. Be at the far western dock by sunrise."

Sherlock grins and signs his name.

The next six months Sherlock spends aboard the opium trading ship. He learns quickly and soon enough he has a sound knowledge base of how to do everything that could possibly need to be done.

He's learned to properly stack and store cargo, how to work the sails, tie off the ship when coming into port, simple maintenance, haggle over prices and even how to extract and collect the opium.

He is treated with a sort of reluctant respect aboard the ship. He's clever and abrasive which often places him on the receiving end of a fist or sword.

But he can use a sword just as agilely as his tongue and with a more damaging effect. He's also discovered a natural talent for boxing which helps to keep his shipmates in-line.

The Captain is surprisingly taken with him and finds endless amusement in his sharp jabs and unfailingly accurate deductions.

Sherlock can hardly stand the boisterous old man and never minces words about it, but the Captain simply chuckles it off as though Sherlock means it to be a joke. Then again he is nipping bits of their cargo, so it's no wonder he's mellow.

Everyone is curious about him as well. He has an unmistakably elegant bearing and is so well-spoken that the general consensus is that he must have noble blood.

Rumors fly about the ship as they all try to discover his origins. The mildest explanation is that he's the illegitimate son of nobleman or woman. The most fanciful and therefore most popular explanation is that he's the son of a mermaid and a human king.

Mind you, there is some evidence to support this outlandish theory. At least the crew see's it as evidence. You see mermaids are said to be creatures of rare beauty, with fine, pale and elegant features which essentially describes Sherlock.

His skin is still almost porcelain, even after several months at sea. He has high-angular cheekbone contrasted with wild chocolate curls lends him an elven look. And the fact that his eyes seems permanently undecided as to what colour they should be supports their superstitions.

He allows them to think what they like, finding it amusing that they equate his natural born cleverness and deductive reasoning to magical powers, granted to him by his mother.

Early one evening, just as the first stars start to shine he spots what appears to be a naval ship in the distance. He nicks a looking-glass off one of his fellow crewmen and directs it toward the ship.

He finds it too be a dilapidated looking vessel, obviously in need of repair. It reminded him of the ship he'd sailed as an officer, only with more character.

He'd never understood when men talked of their ships having spirit; how can an inanimate object built of wood and metal have spirit? But now he understands. He knows with a sudden, startling certainty that the ship will be, _must_ be, his.

He directs the looking-glass on the deck of the ship, scanning the crew. Only five men are aboard. They too look rather bedraggled and in need of care.

He reasons that they must've been caught in a tropical storm that took the remainder of the crew and bits of the ship with it. Sailing in to port for repairs no doubt.

The ship won't be hard to take. He just needs a plan and some time.

Later that night as the crewmen are settling into their bunks they hear a distinctive splash. However when the watchman raises no alarm they assume it to be unimportant and return to their beds.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**

**KP**


	3. The Watson

_**AN: So, very, very sorry about the long update delay! I've just got a ton of other stuff I'm working on so this kind of got lost in the mix. But I'm not giving up on it! I know it's moving slow and the chapters are a bit short but I hope you guys hang in there with me. Soon enough he'll have The Watson to himself and the real adventures will begin!**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. No one does. He's a pirate.**

Sherlock's plan to take The Watson was simple enough. As dinner preparations were being made he organized it all within his mind and he was confident of its success. His grin was uncontainable and caused a sense of general unease among the crewmen. It was almost feline in nature and Sherlock was never known for smiling. They couldn't fathom the source of his gaiety and it unnerved them. But he was left alone, per usual and began to put his plan into action.

That evening he declined dinner, complaining of an unsettled stomach. Those who have seen him smiling wondered about this, but didn't dare ask. Instead they wished him well and went to the table. While the crew was dinning he slipped down into the cargo hold and opened one of the barrels, filled to the rim with opium.

He'd brought a large leather sack down with him and he filled it with the heady plant. Then he slipped back up to his bunk, stuffed the bag under his pillow, and laid down, feigning sleep. It took a few hours for the rest of the men to return to their bunks. Once all noise had finally ceased he stirred, opening his eyes and scanning the room. Every bed save that of the night watchman was occupied and all the men were sleeping.

He moved slowly, climbing from his bed and extracted his sack from beneath his pillow and his sword from beside his bed. No one stirred. He crept quietly out onto the deck, mindful of the squeaking steps, which he carefully avoided. The moon was formed into a bright crescent, lightening the night, without giving away all the shadows. It made for a perfect night for his plan.

Swiftly and silently he moved, untying ropes and maneuvering so as not to attract any attention. He even dressed in all black so the scant moonlight wouldn't catch or reflect upon any of his movement. He would seem nothing more than a dancing shadow, which was not an uncommon sight upon the ocean at night.

He managed to slowly lower a long-boat into the water, attracting no attention until the boat hit the water with a slight splash, awakening the watchman. Sherlock quickly leapt into the boat and cut the ties with his sword worried the watchman might raise the alarm. However he simply stirred, glanced about, and settled back into his seat.

The next morning when they realized he was gone and connected the dots. Everyone was fairly calm over the entire incident. True, he hadn't fulfilled his contract, but they were glad to be rid of the imperious prat. Two crewmen went down to check the hold found not large quantity missing. The Captain decided to let him go and they returned to their routine.

Sherlock allowed himself a sigh of relief as he saw the no lanterns being lit and no din being raised. Part one of his plan was successful. Now for part two. He rowed through the silver, star-studded waters, reveling in the sensation of solitude. True, he could clearly see the darkened silhouettes of the ships, but beyond their presence the sea was a vast open expanse, and it seemed as though the wind itself sang of freedom. Freedom he would soon attain with his ship. He would answer to no one. He wouldn't even have to see anyone if he chose, for days on end. The map and stars would be his guide and his mind would be the only chatter upon the deck.

He rowed on until he estimated his distance to be several yards from The Watson. Perfect. He tightly secured his sword around his waist, slipped the sack of opium over his shoulder and leapt into the water. The chill shocked him for a brief second as he adjusted, floundering for a moment as the weight of his sodden clothes tugged him down towards the black abyss of the ocean floor. He struggled upwards; regaining his balance and control, then began with long strokes, approaching The Watson.

Tales have been told in the island near by of a male siren that swims by the moonlight and one can only guess that some stray fishing boat must've glimpsed him. Indeed he must've seemed something from legend as he glided, pale and elegant through the moonlit water. For Sherlock it hardly seemed the stuff of legends as he struggled with quickly tiring limbs towards his destination. Out of sheer will he finally made it aside the ship.

He began splashing desperately about in the water, shouting up at the massive ship. "H-help! Pl-please! Man Overboard!" he called, allowing the chill to enter his voice causing him to stutter.

When no movement was made from the crewmen he tried again, raising his voice slightly to make him seem younger and more vulnerable

"Plea-ase! Is any-yone uo there!? Hel-lp!"

This time he manage to rouse the night watchman and soon enough cries of "Man overboard!" and "Cast a rope for the lad!" where taken up around the ship.

A heavy rope dropped in front of him and he managed to climb aboard. The few crewmen surrounded him and he was offered a blanket and bit of whiskey. He shivered and gulped down the warming whiskey thankfully, before stuttering to tell his well-rehearsed story.

"I – My name is Sherlock – And – and I've only just escaped" he began keeping his voice high pitched and youth-like, taking gasping breaths to enhance his story.

"Escaped from where, my boy?" Inquired the temporary Caption with a friendly smile, offering him a bit more whiskey.

"That s-ship you see across the w-water." He explained, gesturing weakly in their general direction. "They trade opium and I – I was a prisoner aboard." He continues, moving to sit down on the deck, the cold still draining energy from him. Maybe swimming hadn't been such a good idea, though it was the only way to fulfill his story.

"Why where you a prisoner?" the Captain asks, his voice losing some of its warmth and hardening with suspicion.

"My f-father was a beastly man – and –and he owed them a great d-deal of money –so – so he sold me t-to them shortly after my mother – p-passed away…" Sherlock whimpered through facsimile sobs.

The gathered crew made noises of disapproval and sympathy; someone threw another blanket around his shoulder.

"How did you manage to escape?" the Captain inquired, voice soft and sympathetic again.

Sherlock had the sudden, absurd urge to laugh at how easily these sea-hardened men where being taken in by a mere boy; but that would destroy the plan entirely, so he pressed on.

"They w-were fe-e-asting and drinking. Everyone went to their bunks early an-and-d even the night watchman was t-to-o drunk to stand his g-guard. I saw your ship earlier and d-decided that my chance had f-finally come. I - jumped in-t-to the water and swam over." He explains watching as the Captain's face transforms into disbelief.

"You swam the entire length?" he asked, incredulously.

Sherlock pretended not to notice his tone and nodded, shivering with more intensity as he answered "Yes. I – I was desperate, sir."

The Captain nodded, seeming satisfied. "What did you say your name was again?" he asked.

"Sherlock, sir." He answered; hoping that using his real name wouldn't backlash on him.

"And your surname?" the Captain prompted.

"Smith." Sherlock answered thoughtlessly. He hadn't planned on giving a surname so he used the first that came to mind. It was common enough and unlikely to raise suspicion.

"Well Sherlock Smith, welcome aboard The Watson of the Queens Royal Navy."

Sherlock widened his eyes in false wonder. "This is a naval ship! That's amazing!" he proclaimed, sliding easily into the persona of an excited child.

"I've always wanted to serve Her Majesty on the sea. I just didn't get a chance with having to look after my mother, then when the traders came…." He trails of there, allowing the Captain to step in with an offer.

"Well perhaps when we make it back to port you'll have a chance to join." He says encouragingly and Sherlock fakes a smile.

"I certainly will. What's your name sir, if I might know?" He requests.

"Captain Michael Stamford." The Captain answers.

"Well thank you Captain Stamford, you've saved my life." Sherlock said, allowing real warmth into his voice, because it's an accurate statement.

Captain Stamford waves it off and says "Let's get you settled in. We've got spare bunks. You can sleep and return to London with us." Sherlock nearly winces at that, because he didn't think The Watson would attempt to make it that far with the damages.

But if his plan worked then they wouldn't make it that far anyway. He could get rid of the crew then sail it to another port for repairs.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**

**KP**


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